


all that's left are whispers

by systemoverride



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Grayson (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Robin (Comics), Supersons (Comics)
Genre: AU, Canonical Character Death, Gen, M/M, but doesn't follow canon, canonical elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 11:02:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12505936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/systemoverride/pseuds/systemoverride
Summary: Twenty-two. The number rang through Dick’s head as he awoke. Rolling out of bed to fix himself a quick breakfast, he pulled out a rectangular tablet of stone, hidden beneath his countertop. Twenty-one marks were scratched across its surface. A twenty second, slowly growing, elongating on its own. Magic. The picture was almost complete. He brushed his thumb across each carved line, tracing it. The end was coming.'I don't have long left.'





	all that's left are whispers

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tendency to edit as I go. Sorry.
> 
> I don't typically write in first person so this was different. It's pretty fun.
> 
> 10/24: I estimate it's going to be about 10 chapters or so.  
> 10/31: As I've written more chapters, the direction has changed, so I've rewritten the beginning, so that it makes more sense :)  
> 11/01: 7 chapters. It's going to be 7.  
> 11/06: Slowly converting chapters to third person. First person isn't working for what I want to write lol.
> 
> 10/14/2018 -- So, this turned out to be a lot more complicated than I had anticipated and I'm rewriting chapters to make this work. To those who stuck around; thank you <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/14/2018:  
> So, this piece turned out a lot more complicated than I had anticipated. All the chapters are being re-written, and the tags will change accordingly. I have also decided on a title.
> 
> To all those who are still here; thanks for sticking around. <3

**OCTOBER**

* * *

_Dick - October 25_

It had been a slow and fruitless patrol. Freezing rain tore through the thick ceiling of clouds, flooding the streets of Blüdhaven in an unpleasant slushy concoction of filth, which ran through the gutters and over the docks, washing out the smell of brine that usually sat heavy on the old fishing town. The streets were bare and the shutters on the shops, at least in those shops that were not vacant, had been put up in a flimsy attempt to keep the night chill out. Even the casinos, which were often filled to the brim on most weeknights, sat quiet. Where the light wasn’t swallowed by the solid darkness, the tacky neon signs and slot machines reflected small flashes of colour onto the flooded streets, briefly illuminating alleyways occupied by soggy cardboard houses.

Dick swung through the city- _his_ city, his Nightwing suit clinging to him in a flattering, unflattering sort of way, searching for some form of excitement for the evening, but Blüdhaven never failed to disappoint and tonight was just one of those nights where even the most daring of criminals preferred to close up operations early to tuck into the fleeting warmth of their homes, whether it was a small cot in an abandoned warehouse, or a cramped apartment too small for two grown adults and their seven kids.

After circling the city twice more, Dick finally decided to turn in for the night with a sigh, coming to a stop on the rooftop of his apartment and shaking out the bits of ice that had accumulated on the tips of his hair over the course of six hours before silently disappearing through the non-functional vent that led home. The apartment was barely lived in, much like it had been the past six months, and Dick fumbled with the zipper on the back of his suit, fingers exhausted and heart heavy. He missed the sound of sizzling in the kitchen from an early morning dinner, _longed_ for the warmth of another body curled up next to him on the living room couch.

Haphazardly tossing his water-logged suit into where he last remembered the laundry hamper to be -he couldn’t tell anymore, now with the mountainous terrain of clothes littering the carpet- he turned on the shower, hoping that the water boiler had decided to function, for once. He sat on the tiled floor of the shower, warm water pouring in a torrent through his hair and sliding down his back, running his fingers along the midnight blue paths on his leg. Six months had passed, since the first splash of colour traced its way around his ankle. Three months since they started travelling up his thigh. _Probably have another year at most_ , Dick grimaced, as he turned off the tap, letting his forehead fall none too gently against the wall, closing his eyes to take a deep breath as he tucked the thought of his imminent death into the section of his brain that held some of his worst memories. _They did fine without me. They’ll do fine again._

Too tired to fix himself a proper meal, he left the bathroom, a watery footsteps in an unorganized trail behind him - since he’d forgotten to grab a towel along the way-, and pulled on a pair of boxers while plodding into the kitchen to grab a bowl of cereal, which he decided would have to be eaten dry as he cursed to himself when he saw the expiry date on the milk. There was nothing of interest on his favourite channels that evening; there hadn’t been anything interesting since he’d moved out of the bedroom. The memories there were too overwhelming. He stared mindlessly at the lifeless apartment, hoping to hear the window crack open and steel-toed combat boots hit the wooden floor. It was probably another hour before exhaustion overtook him and he placed the half-eaten cereal bowl on the glass coffee table that they had picked out together at some thrift store when they first moved in. _Too many memories_. He gave one last glance at the photograph hung up beside the now-empty bookshelf, before burrowing as deep as a grown man could into the pillows on the couch, preparing for another night of restless sleep.

_Goodnight, Little Wing._

* * *

_Tim - October 31_

Halloween was warm this year in Gotham; a rare, but not unappreciated occurrence. The Bat family’s annual Halloween gathering was to begin in three minutes, as per Alfred’s expectations, and Timothy was excitedly staring out the manor’s grand Georgian windows to marvel at the stars littered across the night air; some hanging so low, he could reach out and pluck them from the sky. They were to patrol later in the evening, however, as it was one of Damian’s first Halloweens, Dick had insisted on “having a little fun” and letting Damian experience “Trick-Or-Treating,” and Tim had subsequently spent the past two hours rifling through the manor’s security feeds for a snapshot of Damian’s horrified expression when he heard Dick mention a costume.

_Blackmail material._

Seeing the reflection of a someone descending the stairs in the window, Tim turned around, only to drop to the floor in uncontrollable laughter as he watched Damian stomp halfway down the stairs in a pair of ripped -distressed, as Jon insisted- jeans, complete with wild hair, and Superboy’s signature shirt. Jon, in Damian’s Robin suit, hovered at the top of the staircase, trying to stifle his own giggles as Damian jump-tackled Tim from the fifth stair, screeching an unamused, “Shut up, Drake!”

Dick had sauntered down the stairs as gracefully as he could in his nun’s habit, and dragged the boy off of Tim, “You should bring your camera, there will be plenty of photo opportunities,” Dick had promised with a wink.

Damian, clearly vexed, had changed targets, attempting to strangle Dick with the Superboy cape as Dick kept him at arm’s length, allowing Tim to pick himself up off the ground to readjust and carefully dust off his Robin Hood cape. It was one of Dick’s old costumes, and Tim had been greatly honoured to have received it; the colours still stoplight bright, courtesy of Alfred, even after a decade.

“Have you heard from Jason?”

Tim looked up at his oldest brother, silently mourning the way the light would drop from Dick’s eyes when he gave him the answer, “No. I’m sorry.”

Dick turned to stare out the window, at what, Tim was unsure of, but the shadow cast by the veil of his outfit hid whatever expression he might have had, “Well, no point in holding the celebrations off any longer,” he ruffled Damian -who had gone silent-‘s hair, “let’s head out,” he called up to Jon.

Tim had lied. Steph had sent him a civilian tweet earlier. It didn’t take a detective to recognize Red Hood’s thighs in that Wonder Woman outfit. It was odd though, now that he thought about it, to not see Dick dressed in a costume that hugged each muscle on his body, that showed off a little too much skin.

Damian toddled after Dick as they headed out the door, threatening to tear Jon in half if he wouldn’t stop his “insolent guwaffs” – _who even used guwaff anymore?_ – and Tim took the opportunity remove the tweet and send Jason a message.

 

> **Tim [18:38]:** Cute.
> 
> **Jason [18:40]:** You know it.
> 
> **Tim [18:41]:** If you were going to dress up, why didn’t you come?
> 
> **Jason [18:46]:** You know why, Detective.
> 
> **Jason [18:47]:** How is he?

_He would be better if you would just come back,_ was what he had wanted to send. But Tim hesitated and settled on the next best response.

 

> **Tim [18:52]:** Alfred’s disappointed.
> 
> **Jason [18:53]:** Alfred understands.

Tim looked at Dick’s retreating figure, the forced spring in his step painfully apparent, and cringed as he watched Dick take a _vertical_ video of a fuming Damian. The boy’s cheeks flushed almost as red the Superboy cape as Dick engulfed him in his classic full-bodied hugs, gushing about how cute he looked today. He heard someone come up behind him and he quickly pocketed his phone.

“Box of Coffee Crisps. Pack of 144, like you requested,” Duke mock-reported with -what Tim assumed to be- a wide smile underneath his _fukumen zukin_ , while handing him three cardboard boxes _._

“Thanks, Duke.” Tim wasted no time tearing into the first box; Damian had set fire to his fourth secret coffee stash in two weeks -he had clearly inherited his parent’s love for theatrics since for the last one, Tim had woken up, dangling upside-down in an abandoned warehouse to the smell of burning coffee beans-  and he was on the brink of collapsing from withdrawal symptoms – probably around 13 hours more, if the twitching of his left index finger for the past hour meant anything.

Duke looked at him, an eyebrow raised in amusement, “I have a feeling you’re going to finish all of those before midnight.”

Tim checked his watch and frowned, _what an underestimation_ , “I’d say 10 pm. Tops.”

Duke laughed, a full-bellied one -something that he hadn’t heard from Dick in a long time-, shaking his head, “You do you, man, you do you. Can you believe I once thought you’d be the most normal one?”

It was Tim’s turn to look surprised.

“But nah, you’re all crazy.”

“Welcome to the family,” Bruce deep voice rang out from behind them, if Bruce was less emotionally-constipated, it could have been a smirk pasted across his face. “Now hurry along, before I kick you off my lawn,” he disappeared down the hall.

Duke stared after him, flabbergasted, “He. Did he just? Make an old man joke?” he gave Tim a wide-eyed look of concern.

Tim caught the jingle of a bell and the swooshing of leather in the background, _Oh god._ “Let’s get going,” he quickly poured the Coffee Crisps into his candy bag and marched out the manor’s doors.

“You don’t want to get mentally scarred.”

Duke’s footsteps made scuffing sounds across the seemingly endless driveway as he ran after Tim, “Wait, what does that mean?”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so it continues.


End file.
